He allowed her to shut the door this time and he was left standing there with a basket of peaches in his arms, wondering why he’d felt the need to challenge Jillian. If Rachael didn’t want to see anyone, why was he insisting?
Because his gut told him this was the right thing to do and he’d made a policy of always listening to his instincts. His gut had saved the lives of his men in Iraq. He wasn’t ignoring it now.
He set the peaches beside the welcome mat. A minute later Rachael appeared. She stepped out onto the front porch, pulled the door closed behind her, and crossed her arms over her chest. She wore a simple white cotton V-neck T-shirt, thin blue cotton drawstring pants, and a pair of white crew socks. Her hair was pulled up off her neck in a breezy ponytail and her face was scrubbed free of makeup.
He’d seen her in other outfits over the past couple of days. From her spectacular wedding gown and white ballet slippers to the skimpy shorts set and mules she’d borrowed from his sister to the no-nonsense business suit and stilettos she’d worn in court today. But this outfit appealed to him most. Simple, honest, straightforward. She looked like the girl next door.
She is the girl next door, you bonehead.
Suddenly, he was hit with a memory. He and Rachael sitting on the curb on a hot summer afternoon, quarters clutched in their hands, waiting for the ice cream truck to come around the corner. He could hear the music chiming: “Pop Goes the Weasel.” They’d been in her backyard swimming pool. He’d probably been about ten and he’d only gone over to their house to get cool. She couldn’t have been more than five, sitting there in her bathing suit, blonde hair plastered to her head, grinning at him like he was the most wonderful thing on earth. She’d made him feel like a hero when she’d pressed her quarter into his palm and whispered through the gap in her front teeth, “Peese buy me a peach push-up.”
Rachael smelled like the girl next door, too. Like olive oil and honey. Soothing and sweet.
“What is it?” she asked, crossing her arms tighter. Holding herself in or blocking him out, Brody didn’t know which, but he could read the body language loud and clear — Keep your distance, buster.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know that was brutal to hear on national television.”
“You saw Entertainment Tonight.” Rachael hit him with her vulnerable green-eyed gaze and his heart stumbled.
“Deana was watching. By the way, she sends her sympathy and a few negative comments about your ex.”
That got a small grin out of her. The sight of her smile lightened his spirits. If she could find the humor in the situation, she was going to be all right.
Rachael blew out her breath, ducked her head, studied her socks. “You must think I’m a kook.”
“When I look at you, ‘kook’ is not the word that comes to mind.” The suggestive innuendo in his voice took Brody by surprise.
“No?” She raised her head, shot him a look, then quickly dropped her gaze again. “What word comes to mind?”
“Caring, expressive, a little overly passionate, maybe, but that’s not a bad thing.”
“It isn’t?”
“No.” He didn’t know why, or what he intended to do when he got there, but Brody took a step toward her.
Rachael took two steps back, bumping her butt against the door. Her breathing quickened. He couldn’t help noticing the rapid rise and fall of her breasts beneath the T-shirt. “Not even when that misplaced passion lands a girl in jail?”
His gut was telling him something else now. Something he needed to ignore no matter how much he ached to act on it. He had to be careful.
Kiss her.
Without meaning to, Brody propped one forearm against the doorframe above her, leaned in, and lowered his head. He heard her sharp inhalation of air, smelled the fruity scent of wine on her breath.
The sexual tension was so electric he could almost hear it snapping. Gut pulling him forward, he dipped his mouth lower.
And damn if Rachael didn’t pucker her lips and close her eyes. She wanted him to kiss her!
Walk away. Your gut is losing it. Don’t do something you’ll regret. She’s vulnerable. You’re horny. It’s a terrible combination.
Plus, there was the not-so-insignificant fact that he hadn’t gotten naked with a woman since he’d lost his leg. He was the one who was vulnerable.
Common sense prevailed. He took his arm from the door, stepped back, struggled to get his breathing — and other bodily functions — under control.
Slowly, Rachael opened her eyes and lost the pucker. She looked wounded.
Aw, crap.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, trying to make amends, “I think Trace Hoolihan is a giant jackass and that’s the polite way of putting it. Why were you engaged to this guy?”
“He didn’t always act like an ass. He was pretty humble and contrite after he’d been dumped by the Houston Texans. He was charming. Very charming. And romantic. Gifts. Candlelight dinners. Long walks in the park holding my hand. Plus I jumped in too quickly. He asked me to marry him three weeks after we met. He had me snowed. He’s great at being whatever he thinks people want him to be.” Rachael shrugged. “And I fell for it. Story of my life.”
“Hey, at least you dodged a bullet,” Brody said, then cringed inwardly. He wanted to make her feel better, but he realized he was doing a terrible job of it. What he really wanted was to take her into his arms and kiss her so hard she forgot Trace Hoolihan ever existed.
“Yeah,” she said forlornly, “there is that.”
“Look, Rachael.” He raised a hand as impulse spurred him to reach out, cup her chin, and force her to meet his gaze, but he knew that would be overstepping boundaries. He craved feeling the curve of her soft cheek against his palm and he had to fist his hand at his side to keep from reaching out. “There’s a million guys who would give anything to be with you.”
And damn if I’m not one of them.
But of course he didn’t say that. He couldn’t say that. It was stupid to say that now and probably not even really true. He’d just been too long without sex and she was the first woman who’d stirred him this strongly in years.
“That’s the problem.”
“What?”
She lifted her head again and met his gaze, and this time didn’t look away. “I’ve been putting my hopes and dreams and plans on a guy. Why? What’s a guy going to give me that I don’t have already?”
Brody arched an eyebrow. “I can think of one thing.”
She raised a palm. “Okay, sex maybe, but I don’t need a relationship for sex. I could trot on down to Leroy’s Bar right now and get all the sex I wanted without any of the grief of a relationship.”
Alarm spread through him. The thought of Rachael waltzing into Leroy’s and picking up some random guy made him want to go right down there and suspend Leroy’s liquor license. “You’re not going to do it. Right?”
She didn’t say anything, but a speculative look came into her eye as if she was honestly considering it.
“Right?” He ground out the word.
“Would it bother you if I did?”
Oh, hell yeah.
Back off. Calm down. Don’t let her rattle you with idle threats. She doesn’t mean it. She’s just hurting. You of all people should understand that. “You can’t let this Hoolihan character cause you to throw away your values.”
“Why not?” she dared, anger sparking in her sea green eyes. “Where have my values gotten me? Alone. Dumped on my wedding day. Again. Arrested in my hometown. Humiliated on national TV.”
“You’re just angry.”
“Damn right I’m angry,” Rachael said. “And I have every right to be.”
“Granted. Just don’t go jumping into something you’ll regret later,” he said, still worried like hell she was going to saunter on down to Leroy’s and make good her threat.
“I appreciate your concern, Sheriff. I really do, but I’ve been listening to men’s advice just a little bit too long.�
� She nodded fiercely and narrowed her eyes at him. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have company.”
She turned to go inside.
“Rachael?”
She hesitated, hand on the doorknob, and slightly turned back to him. “Yes?”
“Don’t forget your peaches.” He handed her the basket.
She rewarded him with a smile that lit him up inside. She clutched the basket of sweet-smelling peaches to her chest. “Thank you.”
“You will get through this,” he said. “I promise.”
“You’re right.” She lifted her chin proudly and tossed her head. “In fact, I’ve already got a plan.”
“Please tell me it doesn’t have anything to do with Leroy’s Bar.”
“Sheriff Carlton,” she said, “I’m a big girl and I don’t owe you any explanation.”
And with that, she turned and went back inside the house. Leaving him feeling frustrated, irritated, and worried like hell she was setting herself up for big trouble.
RACHAEL WENT BACK into the house with the basket of peaches to find her mother and her friends all staring at her.
“So what’s up with the sheriff?” Jillian asked. “Anything I should know as your lawyer?”
“Honey?” her mother said. “Are you all right? You look pale.”
“There’s nothing going on with the sheriff. He just wanted to talk about scheduling my community service,” she said, not knowing why she lied, other than the fact she didn’t want to talk about what had happened on the porch.
What had happened on the porch?
She thought about the way he’d crowded her personal space, forcing her back against the door. How the look in his eyes had set her heart to thumping. How her stomach had gone all quivery with excitement. How she’d crazily, dizzily wished he’d kiss her until she couldn’t breathe.
Dear God, she’d actually puckered her lips. For a moment, she’d been certain he was going to kiss her. She’d practically dared him to kiss her.
But he hadn’t and she’d been sorely disappointed. And that disappointment disappointed her. What was wrong with her that she saw every handsome man as a potential love match? Why was she so desperate for love?
It was a question Rachael should have asked herself a long time ago.
“Ooh,” Delaney said. “Peaches.”
“Why don’t you take some with you on your trip back to Houston?” Rachael offered.
“Thanks, we will. And speaking of heading back to Houston, it’s almost a six-hour drive. You guys ready to hit the road?” Delaney asked Tish and Jillian. “I’d like to get home before midnight.”
Rachael saw her friends out to their car and hugged them all before they left. It was good to see them again and she really appreciated the moral support, but it was tough having them witness her falling apart. Tish and Delaney had everything she’d ever wanted and she had to admit she was a little envious. Jillian, on the other hand, was an exemplary role model of a woman who didn’t need a man to be a success in life. She should be more like Jillian.
Waving good-bye until their car disappeared from sight, she then turned and headed back inside the house, feeling even lonelier than she had before they’d arrived.
She found her mother at the kitchen sink, industriously peeling peaches. “What’s up?”
“I needed something to keep my mind busy and these peaches are so ripe they’ll go bad in a couple of days. We need to put them up. Would you go down to the cellar and get some of Mrs. Potter’s Mason jars?”
“You’re going to can them tonight?”
“We’re going to can them. You need something to keep your mind off your problems, too.” Her mother tossed her a red gingham apron. “Put this on.”
Rachael retrieved the Mason jars from the cellar and washed them in the sink. She watched as her mother’s fingers expertly skinned the peaches with a paring knife. Drying her hands on her apron, she reached for a plump, rosy peach and bit into it.
A burst of juicy peach flavor exploded in her mouth. “Mmm. Oh, this is so good,” Rachael said. “If romance had a flavor, it would taste just like this. Sweet and lush and perfect.”
“Romance,” her mother scoffed, tossing pitted peaches into a large mixing bowl. “There’s a reason it’s sweet and lush and perfect. It isn’t real.”
Rachael grabbed a paper towel and dabbed at the peach juice dribbling down her chin.
“Romance is a fantasy. An ideal that doesn’t exist.” Selina took a potato masher from a drawer and started systematically smashing the pieces into pulp. “This is what happens to romance. This is what marriage does to you. Smashes and mashes until you’re just flattened and there’s nothing left of that sweet promise except carnage.”
Whoa.
Rachael backed away from the peach nectar flying up from Selina’s potato masher. “Mom? Are you okay?”
“Romance. It’s just like this peach. It looks good at first. All tempting and tasty, but inside there might be worms or you could poke your gum with the sharp edge of the pit. And when peach juice gets on you, it leaves a permanent stain.”
“Mom?” Tentatively, Rachael reached out to touch her mother’s shoulder. Fear, concern, and genuine disaster gripped her. She’d never seen her mother so upset and she had no idea how to comfort her or what she could say to make things better.
Selina tossed the potato masher, dripping with mashed, stain-producing peach pulp, into the sink, dropped her face into her hands, and began to sob.
“It’s going to be okay.” Rachael slipped her arm around her mother’s waist. “Daddy still loves you, I know that he does.” The words sounded empty, but she knew they were true. How could she convince her? Was love enough? She used to think so, but now she had no clue.
Selina raised her head, swiped at her eyes with both hands. “Rachael, please don’t end up like me. Living your life for one man. You put everything into Trace and see how he treated you? Don’t let that happen again. Be your own woman. Believe in yourself. Don’t make romance the be-all, end-all of your existence. Promise me that.”
The look in her mother’s eyes rattled Rachael to the core. All the values and beliefs she’d held dear for twenty-six years were in question. “Okay. I promise.”
“I think I better go to bed now.” She touched her bandaged forehead. “My head is throbbing.”
Rachael got her mother some aspirin and helped her to bed, then went back to the kitchen to clean up the peach mess. As she washed and wiped, she reflected on the events of the past few days. She thought about all the mistakes she’d made. All the old sweethearts, the crushed dreams, the broken hearts. She thought about Robert, the first fiancé who’d dumped her at the altar. Correction. Robert hadn’t dumped her, he’d just never shown up. Cold feet, he’d told her later when he’d called to apologize. And then he’d gone on to tell her he wasn’t good enough for her. That she deserved someone who could love her as much as she should be loved. The sentiment had sounded right and she’d agreed with him. She thought she’d found that someone with Trace. How wrong she’d been.
She recalled how Trace had just made a fool of her during his Entertainment Tonight interview. She thought about how her anger had landed her in jail and then into community service that would force her to stay in Valentine for the remainder of the summer.
And, she thought about her parents and the turbulence they were going through even if she didn’t understand what it was all about. Her stomach ached for them. Tearing the fabric of twenty-seven years woven together couldn’t be easy. Sorrow clogged her throat and she clenched her fists against the sadness of it all.
Her mother was right. Romance wasn’t real. It was just an illusion, a nice fantasy but nothing more. She’d let the pursuit of a fantasy run her life.
No. Not just run her life, but dominate it.
She simply had to change.
But what had happened with Brody on the porch this evening told her it wouldn’t be easy. She couldn’t trust herself. She cou
ldn’t do this alone.
She needed help. She needed a twelve-step program. But nothing like that existed. They had programs for sex addicts, but she wasn’t addicted to sex. When she went after a man, sex wasn’t her main goal. It was flowers and gifts and long walks in the park holding hands. It was the fairy tale she wanted. The knight in shining armor. The feeling of being Cinderella at the ball. The lovely promise of happily-ever-after.
Life just didn’t work that way, no matter what growing up in Valentine had promised. But how did she stop yearning for it? How did she put an end to her cravings when there was no support group for romanceaholics?
The answer came to her as clearly as if someone had spoken into her ear.
Start your own.
Chapter Eight
Early the next morning, Rachael was atop the Valentine billboard again, this time with turpentine and a scrub broom in her hands instead of a paintbrush. Cleaning up the sign wasn’t as much fun as vandalizing it had been, but in a Zen-like way, it was almost as therapeutic.
As she mindlessly scoured the sign, her thoughts were on her new endeavor. The more she thought about Romanceaholics Anonymous, the more excited she got. This was her new mission in life. She’d seen the error of her ways and she was a convert. Now, to get other people on board.
She’d been working about an hour and she was already starting to sweat, even though it wasn’t yet nine o’clock. The day promised to be another scorcher. Just when she was beginning to realize she should have brought water and sunscreen, Brody’s Crown Vic motored by.
When he pulled to a stop on the shoulder of the road beneath the billboard, Rachael’s heart started pounding erratically.
Looking resplendent in his uniform and sunglasses, he got out of the car.
Rachael set down the scrub broom and pushed back a strand of hair that had fallen from her ponytail and was trailing across her face. She glanced down at him.
Brody held a white paper sack in his hand. “Had breakfast yet?”
“Cereal bar this morning,” she called back down. “But I’ve worked up an appetite.”
He waggled the bag. “Come on down. You deserve a break.”
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